


Of Fortune And Flowers

by evilgiraff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Department of Mysteries, Fluff, Gardener Harry Potter, Getting Together, H/D Career Fair 2017, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Prophecy, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: Draco is happily muddling along in his job as Assistant to the Keeper of the Hall of Prophecies, when his world is turned upside down by a new prophecy involving himself – and Harry Potter.





	Of Fortune And Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momatu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momatu/gifts).



> For Prompt #[1](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiaSm8GWFLsDD8KUOZmlTSHmhIMyFZzdqYNfB-25Khk/edit).
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods, who gave me extension after extension. A thousand thanks to my darling beta, O, without whom this fic would have been entirely unrecognisable. While writing I came across [this comic,](http://emilymcgovern.com/2017/09/25/slytherin75/) and I loved it so much I had to include a little snippet.

The smell of cooking bacon wakes Draco.  At first tantalising, drawing him out of sleep with promises of deliciousness, then more urgently prodding him into fully awake as the overlay of burning becomes apparent.

“Shit, shit, shit!”  Draco rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door, wrestling with his dressing gown as he heads for the kitchen, shouting for his housemate.  “Greg, the bacon!”

The smoke alarm starts to blare, drowning out any hope of being heard as Draco staggers down the corridor.  Pushing through the kitchen door still struggling with the cord of his dressing gown, which has managed to thread itself down one sleeve, Draco finds Greg poking forlornly at what should have been breakfast.  Draco waves his wand irritably at the ceiling, the alarm falling silent in a drawn-out wail.

“Ruined again,” Greg laments, picking up a charred piece and inspecting it closely.  “Maybe I set the charm too hot.”

“Or maybe you just forgot it was cooking,” Draco says, peering into the pan and selecting a piece himself.  “One of these days you’re going to burn the house down.”

Greg looks over at him, eyes narrowed.  “Don’t joke about that stuff.  There’s a flameproof charm on the pan, you know that.  No-one’s getting burned.”

Draco sighs, drops the bacon back into the pan.  “I know, I know.”  The smoke filling the air is suddenly too much, transforming a burned breakfast into a horrifying memory.  “I’m going for a shower.”

When he returns to the kitchen, clean, dressed, and considerably more awake, Draco finds the kitchen smoke-free, with Greg polishing off the last bit of bacon.

Draco raises an eyebrow.  “I thought you said it was ruined?”

Greg laughs, using the last morsel of bacon sandwich to wipe a smear of brown sauce from his plate.  “Yeah, but it’s still bacon.  Food of the gods, and all that.”  He gestures over at the counter.  “I made you some toast.”

“Thank you.”  Draco extracts a plate of marmalade toast from under Greg’s warming charm, and sits down at the table, pushing a pile of paperwork out of his way.  “Don’t your customers mind having their invoices covered in crumbs and bacon grease?”

“They expect it,” Greg grins.  “It’s all part of my rustic charm.”

He’s probably right.  Since the war ended, Greg has changed his name from Goyle to Smith - though most of his clients call him Greg The Pipes - and set up a thriving business as a plumber.  Draco isn’t sure why Greg doesn’t attract the same level of vitriol as Draco does, both of them being ex-Death Eaters, but there’s no denying that Greg seems to be doing very well.  Perhaps it is his charm - no longer a hulking, silent, bodyguard, out of the shadow of his school friends and the Death Eaters, Greg has proved to have a certain twinkly-eyed trustworthiness that garners repeat business and a growing client base.

“Hmm.”  Draco brushes the crumbs off his fingers, and stands up.  “I’m going to work.  See you later.”

Draco takes a deep breath as he closes the front door, enjoying the cool air and peace of the quiet street.  He strolls up the road to the Apparition point beside a large willow tree, closes his eyes and Apparates to London.  The noise is the first thing that he notices - the constant background rumble of Muggle traffic, then the chatter of pedestrians.  The air is warmer, somehow less satisfying to breathe.  He loosens his scarf, pulling it up a little higher as he does so, nestling his chin down and hiding his hands in the deep pockets of his coat.  For the first five minutes of his walk to the Ministry he enjoys the feeling of being part of a larger whole, surrounded by people all going about their business, the sense of belonging in a group deeply comforting.

In the sixth minute, that feeling is shattered by a deep voice beside his ear, a waft of stale coffee coming with it.  “Death Eater scum.”  The man shoves him with a shoulder, knocking him off balance.  Draco suppresses a sigh, carries on walking while his assailant strides away, head held high.  It’s a casual encounter, and a common one.  It’s a rare day that Draco gets through his commute without something similar happening.  It is the only one, however, and no-one else bothers him as he arrives at the Ministry entrance in the public toilets, and flushes his way in.

Inside the Ministry, he relaxes, walking more freely to the lifts.  Other Ministry workers stream around him, the hum of conversation flowing, more mundane and yet more interesting than the chatter outdoors.  There’s still the gossip, the complaining, and the cattiness, but there’s also the odd intriguing snippet.

“...Mrs Johnson’s turned into a kettle again…”

“...really not good enough, like we haven’t got enough to do without doing home visits to Nargle keepers as well…”

“...oh for crying out loud, Kevin, keep the bloody lid on!”

This last is a forlorn shout, as the unfortunate Kevin vainly tries to grab what Draco assumes is a pixie, although it has long tail feathers and seems to move even more quickly than pixies generally do.  He ducks into the lift, managing to get one on his own as everyone else either helps or hinders the probably-a-pixie recapturing effort.

The lift drops smoothly down to level nine, opening on the black-tiled corridor of the Department of Mysteries.  As ever, it strikes Draco as unnecessarily forbidding.  The Department may deal with dangerous magic, but there’s no need to make the people who work in it feel gloomy every day.  He pushes through the black door into the Entrance Chamber, closes his eyes to stave off the dizziness as the walls rotate, and asks for the Hall of Prophecies.  The Hall is still huge and dark, with a high, vaulted ceiling, but the towering shelves full of prophecy record orbs are gone.  The Keeper of the Hall, Draco’s boss Ermintrude Dobson, spends most of her time working in the Time Room, and leaves the running of the Hall of Prophecy to Draco.  He sends her a report every now and again, and she pops round to check he’s alright every few days, but on the whole he has the entire space to himself.  He resists the urge to sprint through the vast hall, though the smooth parquet flooring and lack of obstacles is very inviting, and instead pushes through the small door into the Keeper’s Office.

Of course, due to Ermintrude’s haphazard approach to running the Hall, it has really become Draco’s office.  It is a sharp contrast to the gloomy emptiness of the rest of the department, being brightly lit and somewhat cluttered.  His large desk takes up most of the space in the room, and the remainder is dominated by two huge barrels, brimming with prophecy record orbs.  Unlike Greg’s “rustic” approach to paperwork, Draco’s is meticulous, a neat stack of blank forms on his desk ready to record the details of each prophecy.  It still amazes him that the Hall had previously held no information about the prophecies it contained, other than rumours of content and personnel involved.  Since the war, the Ministry has decided that a more detailed approach is required, and so Draco landed the task of making a thorough inventory of the prophecies.  One of the two barrels contains what is left of the orbs that were previously held on the shelves, and the other contains new prophecies.  Draco records the prophet, date, and a rough outline of the prophecy before placing each one on a shelf.  No longer precariously balanced on flat shelves, each prophecy now rests in its own spherical case, the cases connected by a glittering magical web.  The structure as a whole is staggeringly beautiful, maintained by tiny insectoid creatures – Neithids – that crawl along each connecting strand, repairing and cleaning each case meticulously.  Draco’s classification system organises each prophecy by prophet, focus, and content.  The Neithids know each prophecy intimately, allowing the Keeper of the Hall (or Draco, as Assistant) to find each one easily.  Many of the orbs contain prophecies that have come to pass, and these Draco dissolves with a neat little spell that pops each one like a bubble, releasing a brief burst of bright smoke, the shelf structure sparkling with reflected rainbow colours, before quickly dissipating.

He’s filled forms and shelved prophecies for about half an hour, and is starting to hum a little tune to himself, when there’s a rustling noise.  He frowns, looks around, then smiles as the rustling becomes a fluttering, and a small origami crane lands on his desk.  “Morning, Bert,” he says, holding out a finger.  Bert the crane gives him a friendly peck, then flaps off to perch on the door frame.  The day passes easily, the prophecies largely concerning matters either mundane or already past.  He dutifully writes the details nonetheless, quill scratching across the parchment and Bert occasionally fluttering over to inspect his work.

At the end of the day, he gathers all the out-of-date prophecies and carries them out into the main hall, Bert perched on his shoulder and bobbing up and down excitedly.  “Alright, then,” Draco murmurs, waving his wand and casting the disposal spell into the air so that it shimmers with potential.  “Ready, Bert?”  He throws one prophecy up into the shimmering area, and Bert immediately flies after it, giving it a sharp peck just before it begins to fall.  The contact and the spell combine, and the prophecy pops with a bright burst of yellow.  Draco throws another, and another, Bert zooming from orb to orb as fast as his little wings will carry him, whirling through the air, looping and twisting with clear delight, the room filling with colour like a magical firework display.  When the prophecies have all been disposed of, Draco holds out his hand for Bert to settle down on, stretching his wings and nudging Draco’s thumb affectionately.  Draco sets him carefully down on the desk, where he settles down next to Draco’s pot of quills, tucking his head under a wing.  Draco pads quietly across the room, closing the door carefully behind him, so as not to disturb the sleepy crane.

Back in the Atrium he gets a cup of tea from the stand in the middle of the room, passing over the tempting array of cakes and biscuits and instead heading for the fireplaces that will allow him to Floo back up to the toilet entrance.  Diagon Alley is busy, full of people heading home from work, shopping, and other errands.  He walks up the street until he reaches his favourite bench - set beneath a plane tree a little way back from the road, beside a municipal flower bed.  Uphill, it provides a clear view of much of Diagon Alley, and Draco settles down with his tea to watch the world go by before he rejoins the throng to head home himself.  There’s a gardener working on the flower bed, and the rich smell of the turned earth is pleasing.

A small boy trots out of the sweet shop across the road, one hand held tightly by his mother, and the other clutching an overly-large lollipop.  They pass by Draco’s bench, and Draco can’t restrain a chuckle at the sight of the boy’s smug expression.  As they continue past the flowerbed, the boy’s eyes lift to regard the gardener, then grow huge and round.  He stops dead, his mother brought to a sudden, irritated stop.  Her admonishment is swiftly drowned out by her child’s voice.

“Mum, mum, look, it’s Harry Potter!”  Surprised, Draco turns, his heart jumping in his chest.  It’s a reaction that takes him right back to Hogwarts, his senses sharper, breath quicker when Potter is nearby.

The woman looks round wearily.  “I’m sure it is.  Now come on.”  She tugs at his hand, to no avail.

“No really mum, it is him, can we say hello?”  Without waiting for an answer, he breaks free and scrambles over the flower bed, earth sticking to lollipop, shoes, and hands alike.  “Hello Mr Potter!”

The gardener straightens up, looks round, his hands still full of flower bulbs.  He greets the boy warmly, and Draco is shocked to realise that it is indeed Potter.  Harry Potter, with his knees in the dirt, hair and scar covered by a lumpy woollen hat, and a smile on his face.

It’s been years since Draco has seen Potter, though the last time is easy to remember.  He’d stood up in court, looking tired and deeply sad, and insisted that Draco and his mother be exonerated of all crimes.  His certainty had swung the jury, and Lucius is the only member of the family to have been incarcerated.

The small boy and his mother leave, both chattering excitedly, and Potter resumes digging with his trowel.  It’s clearly a well-practised movement, smooth and with no wasted effort.  He carefully places a few bulbs, then smooths the earth around them, patting it down gently, as if tucking them into bed.  He gathers his tools, stands up, and brushes the loose earth from his trousers.

Without considering why, Draco mirrors his actions, standing and unconsciously straightening his own clothing, his body carrying him closer to Potter as if the man has a gravitational field that acts only on Draco.  “Evening, Potter.”

Potter turns, surprise morphing into a broad smile.  “Draco Malfoy,” he says.  “Well I never.”

An answering smile creeps over Draco’s face.  “You’re gardening these days, I see?”   He gestures at the ground, as if Potter needed extra explanation.

Potter nods.  “It’ll look nice come spring.  I’ll be doing it for a couple of weeks I think, getting it all planted.”  He steps out of the flower bed, walking round towards Draco with an easy stride.  Up close, Potter smells of damp earth and warmth, clean and reassuring.  “You work nearby, I assume?”

“In the Ministry.  I like this spot for a cup of tea.”

“I might see you here again, then,” Potter observes.  “Must dash, but it’s good to see you, Malfoy.”  The clap as Potter Disapparates is startling.  Draco stands there, looking at an empty flower bed, only the gentle patter of falling earth as evidence that Potter had been there at all.

The air seems cooler with Potter’s absence, though the memory of his smile sends a curl of warmth through Draco’s belly.  It’s a familiar feeling, the way his heart beats faster when Potter is near, skin feeling slightly too tight, and a restless energy spurring him to action.  No longer constrained by school rules or teenage self-consciousness, it’s more peaceful a feeling than it has ever been.  He can’t engineer a detention or an argument, spurring Potter into action, but he can turn up tomorrow, with his tea, and watch Potter with his hands in the earth.  He can, and he will.

 

The next day, he arrives at work and finds Bert fluttering around in a very excited fashion. “Alright, alright, let me in the door first,” Draco says, fending off the flapping paper crane with his arm. Bert flies over to the prophecy record barrels, swooping down to the “new” one and bobbing his beak up and down. Draco hangs up his coat and scarf and wanders over to see what Bert is making such a fuss about.

Unlike the brimming barrel of old prophecies that survived the war, the barrel of new ones is usually empty. Today, however, there is a glow coming from the “new” barrel. A prophecy record orb is sitting on the bottom, slightly larger than most, and gently pulsing with light. Draco reaches in, taps it with his wand and settles down at his desk to record the information. As the prophecy begins to play he's surprised to see his old schoolteacher appear in front of him, but dutifully writes “Sybill Trelawney” under “Prophet”. Her voice, more powerful and commanding than he's ever heard her speak in person, resonates through the room.

“The Boy Who Lived will make a choice–”

She is interrupted by the office door banging open, and his boss, Ermintrude, strides in. She closes down the orb, Professor Trelawney's voice cutting off in a high-pitched squeal. “I'll do this one, if you don't mind, Draco,” Ermintrude says. “There's plenty of the older ones to get through still.”

“Of course,” Draco replies, picking up the orb and handing it over with the just-started form. He prickles with curiosity, but he can hardly say no to his boss. “I'll file it when you're finished with it.”

“Thanks,” says Ermintrude. “It's a Harry Potter one – a _new_ Harry Potter one – so there's a lot of excitement. A lot of panic, too, people are afraid it might herald the return of You-Know-Who, or the rise of another dark wizard.” She whisks off without waiting for a reply, leaving Draco feeling slightly sick.

The thought of Voldemort's return is unbearable. After several years of peace, Draco has become used to living his life without being afraid – unpleasant encounters on his commute notwithstanding. He doesn't want to think of Potter being involved in another war, either. He has already died to save the world once, which is surely sacrifice enough for anyone. He dreads discussing this with his mother, who is so grateful to Potter for saving the life of her son, that she has almost deified him in her mind. He can't imagine how he'll begin to tell her if there is going to be another war.

He throws himself into work to try to drive the thoughts from his mind, orb after orb passing through his hands, the stack of completed forms growing higher and higher. He neatly files them, then takes the spent ones out to the hall to dispose of them. Bert is as animated as usual at the prospect of a flight, and pops each orb with glee, his paper wings bright in the gloom as each prophecy bursts with colour. It lightens Draco's heart somewhat to see the little crane darting about the room, and knot of anxiety he's carried in his chest all day begins to loosen.

Just as he's shrugging into his coat ready to go home, Ermintrude returns, placing the new orb carefully down on the desk alongside the completed form.

“Anything interesting?” Draco asks, the knot tightening once more.

Ermintrude starts, looking up at him with eyebrows knitted in curiosity. “Not necessarily,” she replies. “ _Draco_ is dragons, right?”

“I'm sorry?” Thrown by the sudden change of direction, Draco can only shake his head.

“Your name,” she insists. “It's about dragons?”

“Oh. Yes, it is.”

“I thought so.” Ermintrude folds her arms in a satisfied sort of way, standing up straighter. “I've got other stuff to do, but I'll probably be down again later in the week. Lots of interest in this prophecy, as you can imagine. It's a bloody good thing we've got it in here, you shouldn't get too much in the way of tourists wanting a look.” She fixes Draco with a steely look. “Policy is only authorised personnel see the prophecies, remember. No clearance, no inspection. See you later.” She's gone before Draco can reply.

He looks over at Bert, perched on the “new” barrel. “Draco is about dragons,” he explains, “but I'm named for the constellation, not the reptile. Not that it makes much difference, I suppose, given that the stars are named after actual dragons anyway.” He wanders over and scratches Bert's back affectionately. “It doesn't sound like the Dark Lord will be back any time soon, anyway. Not that she'd likely tell me outright, I suppose.” His left arm starts to itch at the thought, and he rolls up his sleeve. The Dark Mark is still clearly visible, though faded and losing clarity at the edges. It feels unpleasant, the snake feeling faintly reptilian and the skull rather smoother than the rest of his skin. He reaches for a quill to scratch it with, not wanting to touch the Mark with his bare fingers.  The pleasure of the scratching wars with the revulsion for the scar until at last he gives in, scraping his nails across his skin, the Mark overlaid with red stripes.

Replacing the quill on his desk, he looks at the new prophecy, then shrugs and picks it up. It's heavy in his hand, warm and rather enticing. A new Harry Potter prophecy, it is really rather intriguing. Still, most of the prophecies he sees involve more mundane matters than he expected before he took the job. It's probably just something about what month Witch Weekly will have Potter on the cover again.  Draco shelves it in the appropriate location, where it looms slightly over its neighbours like Jupiter sitting beside Saturn.

Back in the office, he straightens a few loose papers, nudges a quill into perfect alignment with the edge of the desk, and double-checks everything is neat and tidy, a restlessness gnawing at him, reflected in Bert’s agitated flight from the back of the chair to the desk, to the door frame, his shoulder, and back to the chair.  Draco drums his fingers on the desk for a moment, then fishes out the file for the new prophecy.  The details are sparse, Ermintrude not having bothered – or purposely omitted – to record the prophecy in full.  What is there, is tantalising in its brevity.

 **_Prophet:_ ** _Sybill Trelawney_

 **_Focus:_ ** _Harry Potter_

 **_Other parties:_ ** _Death Eaters (Draco Malfoy?)_

 **_Prophecy:_ ** _Harry Potter, dragon, stars_

His own name, stark in black ink on the creamy parchment, stares back up at him.  It feels like an invitation, a summons.

“Fuck it,” Draco mutters, and turns purposefully to the door.  As it opens, Bert shoots past, flying as fast as his little wings will carry him.  Draco follows the little crane out into the Hall, along the row back to the new Harry Potter prophecy, where Bert is perched, bobbing up and down.  “Alright, alright.”  Draco picks up the orb, which immediately warms in his hand.  He carries it back into the office, sets it down on the desk, where it sits looking both inviting and ominous.

Draco stares at it for a long time.  There’s no reason he can’t look at it, he thinks, trying to justify what he wants – needs – to do.  He’s the Assistant to the Keeper, he has the necessary clearance.  Ermintrude has already completed the file, but they usually take more detail, record the whole prophecy verbatim.  He tells himself that this is why he wants to hear it, takes a deep breath, and taps it with his wand.

Immediately, an image of Professor Trelawney appears in a smoky cloud, her hair wispy around her face, large eyes slightly out of focus.  Her delicate, almost ethereal appearance is at odds with the confidence and power of her voice as it rings through the room.

_“The Boy Who Lived will make a choice.  To charm the serpent, or stand alone.  To hold the dragon, or to cast it back into the fire.  The Boy Who Lived will find happiness with the stars, if he risks being lost in space.”_

The mist quickly dissipates, though the ringing in Draco’s ears remains, shock coursing through him.  Whatever he had thought a new Harry Potter prophecy might be, it wasn’t this.  He reshelves the orb in a daze, closing the door on Bert and wobbling out of the Department.  The noise of rush hour in the Atrium is too much, and he Apparates away in a hurry, desperate to get his raw senses away from the press of so many people.

As his Apparition lands with his feet on gravel rather than smooth tarmac, he looks round in surprise. He had intended to go home, and his magic has clearly taken this rather more literally than usual. Malfoy Manor is at the end of the gravelled path, the Cotswold stone almost glowing in the late afternoon sunshine. Narcissa Malfoy is beside the front door, balanced precariously on her tiptoes while she tips water from a jug into a luxurious hanging basket. It's a scene he's seen every summer since he was a small child – his mother takes great pride in the presentation of her home, and the garden is a large part of that. Somehow it seems more personal than the interior, perhaps because decorating internally is always done through magic, and so is a little more detached. Narcissa always insists the garden is cared for by hand, however, claiming that the plants grow better if they feel someone cares for them. It certainly seems to work – the hanging baskets beside the door are magnificent, bright flowers and feathery foliage tumbling almost all the way to the ground.

“Need a hand, mum?” he calls, hurrying over, the gravel crunching under his feet just as he did as a small child dashing around the garden.

She looks round, startled, water splashing out of the jug, running down her bare arm and dripping off her elbow. “Draco!” She beams, setting down her jug and holding her arms wide.

Wrapped in her embrace, tension drains out of Draco as quickly as the water from Narcissa's wet arm soaks into his jumper. “Hello,” he mumbles, into her shoulder.

She takes him by the shoulders, holding him at arm's length. “What a lovely unexpected surprise,” she says, pinning him with an intense look. “So unexpected it's almost unprecedented. What brings you here in the middle of the week, with no warning?”

He looks away, unable to face her scrutiny. “There's a new Harry Potter prophecy,” he states, baldly, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “It’s not just him, it’s me,” he looks back at her, shrugs as her fingers start to dig into his shoulders. “It says he might – will – choose me.”  He takes a deep breath, unable to comprehend the enormity of the statement, afraid that he has become the butt of a cruel joke.  However much he wishes it to be true, daring to believe it seems too big a task to contemplate.  “That he could find happiness, with me.”  He trails off, hating how his voice has started to quaver. It's an unwelcome feeling, the tendril of fear curling in his belly, forcing his spine straight and stiff, his chin out and his fists clenched.

Draco's reaction is echoed in Narcissa's posture, and he remembers how they had always faced other Death Eaters – and his own father – the same way, growing more formal, more detached, as threats grew more serious. He remembers the thin veneer of control he felt he had when Dolores Umbridge had named him a member of her Inquisitorial Squad, the way it had allowed him to pretend for a while that following the rules – however ironically draconian – could keep him safe. He's not proud of the casual cruelties he'd committed, but he knows that without the Squad he would have been rudderless, even more exposed to harm than he already was, with the Dark Lord living in his family home. It's another reason why his mother's garden feels safer than the inside of the house, and why he no longer ventures into certain rooms.

Narcissa takes him by the hand and leads him back down the gravel path. “The apples are just ripening,” she says. “Come and help me see if any are ready for picking.” They walk together in silence, Draco drawing comfort from the familiarity of the action, following his mother's lead the most natural thing in the world.

The apple orchard has been one of Draco's favourite places since he was a small child, the trees gnarled and ancient, and always full of promises. In springtime the blossom coats the branches and spins through the air like confetti, as if all the trees are dressed for a wedding. The deep green of summer and the swelling fruits are part of every childhood memory, the trees easy to climb and hang rope swings from. Now, in early autumn, the apples are heavy on the boughs, and as he takes one in his hand it drops willingly with the slightest touch. The skin is a perfect yellow-green, tight and unblemished. The fruit smells heavenly, and he breathes in the scent deeply, the sweetness reassuring.

Narcissa smiles at him. “So,” she begins, “Harry Potter.”

“Yes.”

“Choosing to be with you?  As a couple?”

“That’s certainly the implication.”

“And does he know?”

Draco hesitates. “I'm not sure. He's not been into the department, but he might have seen it while Ermintrude had it. He seemed normal when I saw him, but that was before I knew about the prophecy.”

“You've seen him? He works in the Ministry?” Narcissa is as surprised as Draco was, Potter's employment status not being widely known.

“No, he was in Diagon Alley yesterday.  Planting a flower bed.”

Narcissa beams, eyes sparkling at the idea that Potter may enjoy gardening as much as she does. “He's a good boy, Harry Potter.  You could do a lot worse.  The prophecy may say he could find happiness with you, but I could believe it the other way.  I think he could make you happy.”  She draws Draco into a hug, the reassurance of her love dizzying.

Pulling back, she plucks another apple, pressing it into Draco's hands. “Here, take him an apple.”

“He's not my teacher, mum,” Draco protests. “I'm not a five year old trying to curry favour.  And he may not be there again anyway.”

“Tell him it's a gift from me, not you,” Narcissa counters. “Take him the apple.”

 

Draco Apparates home, sits down at the kitchen table, shoves Greg’s paperwork out of the way and sets the apple down.  He’s still there ten minutes later when Greg comes in from work.

“It’s an apple, Draco,” he comments, shouldering out of his overalls.  “You alright?”

Draco looks up at him, trying to wake himself up.  “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.  “I’m fine.”

“So what’s with the apple?”

“It’s a present for Harry Potter from my mother.”  Draco sits up straight, chin lifted in defiance, daring Greg to laugh.

“So why have you got it?”  Greg sits down opposite him, fixing him with a stern look as Draco shrugs.  “You shouldn’t keep other people’s things.  It’s not nice.”

“I’m not a nice person, Greg.”

Greg snorts, pushes the apple with one finger until it drops off the edge of the table and into Draco’s lap.  “Go on,” he urges.  “Go give it to Potter.”

 

It’s twilight when Draco Apparates back into Diagon Alley, relief and anxiety coursing through him as he sees Potter in the flower bed once more.  At his approach, Potter looks up.

“Working late?  I thought you weren’t coming for a while there.”  He sits back on his heels, unaware or uncaring of the mud his boots smear over his back pockets.

Draco waves his wand, transfigures some fallen leaves into a small blanket, mottled with shades of green, brown, and yellow, and settles down on it, crossing his legs.  “I’ve got a present for you,” he says, reaching into his pocket.  “From my mother.”  He tosses the apple to Potter, who catches it easily in his left hand.

“What’s the occasion?”  Potter bites deep into the apple, crunching through the flesh with obvious enjoyment.  A drop of juice trickles down his chin, quickly wiped away, leaving a smudge of earth across his face.  “This is delicious.”

“Not a Delicious, actually.  A Cox,” Draco corrects.  “And no occasion.  But my mother likes you.  And apples.”

“She has good taste,” Potter opines.  “Tell her thank you, for me?”

“Of course,” Draco murmurs, watching Potter’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

Potter finishes the apple, looking at the core thoughtfully.  He shrugs, then turns to Draco with a raised eyebrow.  “You reckon it’ll grow?”  He moves to the centre of the flower bed, and sets to with his trowel once more.

“You’re planting a Malfoy tree in a war memorial garden?”  It seems almost blasphemous; Draco is so used to hearing his family name vilified.

“Yes.”  Potter buries the core in the new hole, firming the earth down around it.  “I would be dead if it wasn’t for your mother.”  He looks round, eyes large.  “Actually, I would be dead if it wasn’t for you.  I don’t think I ever actually thanked you.”  He pokes a plant label into the ground above the apple core, and gets to his feet, groaning slightly as his back straightens.

From his vantage point on his tiny blanket on the ground, Draco has a good view as Potter stretches, trying to loosen stiff muscles.  He’s no longer the gangly, too-thin teenager, peace and age having worked to build him up.  Strength is obvious in his thighs and arms, though he’s still slender.  His shirt flaps a little, giving glimpses of dark hair on a firm belly.  A rush of warmth floods Draco from head to foot, face and fingers tingling with sudden heat, mercifully hidden by the failing light.

Potter holds out a hand, helps Draco to his feet.  “Thank you,” he says, too close, too warm, everything about him overwhelming.  “Thank you for my life.”

Draco keeps hold of Potter’s hand like a drowning man to a life raft, Potter both steadying and dizzying.  “You’re welcome,” he manages, voice scratchy.  He remembers being on his knees in the drawing room, face to mangled face with Potter, unable to comprehend that no-one else could recognise him.  It had been so clear to Draco, Potter’s unmistakeable gold-flecked green eyes gazing out at him.  He would have recognised him anywhere.

It seems a long time before Potter lets go of his hand, with a nod, a cough and an awkward step back.  “More planting tomorrow,” he says.  “It’s getting dark, I’m done for the day now.”

As with the previous day, Potter’s departure is abrupt, the whirl of Apparition sending fallen leaves swirling up into the air, Draco’s forgotten blanket disintegrating back into its component parts.  Draco follows Potter’s example, heads home, and tries to ignore Greg’s quiet smile as he brushes a few stray leaves from his shoes.

In the morning, it’s a Saturday, and Draco relishes the chance to stretch out in bed, sunshine streaming through the windows.  There’s no promise of heat, but the sliver of sky Draco can see through the not-quite closed curtains is bright blue.  Potter will be able to get quite a lot of planting done on a day like this, Draco imagines, and all of a sudden his mind’s eye shows Potter, on his knees in the dirt, one hand holding the ever-present trowel, and the other with that apple.  Potter’s eyes draw him in, until Draco is on the ground, heart hammering as he stares at Potter’s eyes, stares and stares and doesn’t say a word, until Potter reaches up and caresses his face, pulling him gently forward–

Draco’s reverie is rudely interrupted by an insistent tapping at the window.  He groans, presses the heel of his hand into his groin, trying to quell an uncomfortably familiar tingling that takes him right back to Hogwarts weekends, thinking of Potter.

Opening the curtains reveals a Post Office owl on his windowsill, fluffing its feathers self-importantly.  It flies past Draco as he opens the window, dropping a letter on his pillow before circling back, and is outside and away before Draco has time to blink.  The letter is sealed with a smear of wax but no stamp to indicate the sender.  He frowns, then opens it.

 _Dear Malfoy,_ it reads.   _Not sure if you’re working on Saturdays, but I am.  If you’re free and fancy giving me a hand with the flower bed, you’d be very welcome.  Lunch too?  Will be there from 10am.  Harry_

Draco stares at it, hands trembling, not quite able to believe what he’s seeing.  Then, refusing to think too closely about it, he chooses some clothes; warm and comfortable ones, just in case he should happen to go to Diagon Alley.

 

By eleven o’clock, Draco is at the flower bed, two mugs of tea in his hands.  He sets them carefully down on the bench, then walks over to Potter, who is on the far side of the flower bed and surrounded by pots of pansies in every imaginable colour.  He beams as Draco approaches, getting to his feet and stepping carefully over the flowers.

“Good morning,” he says.  “You got my message, then?”

Draco doesn’t have time to reply, as the next moment Potter trips over an errant spade, flails out to Draco for support.  Draco’s arms are around Potter before he knows what he’s doing, holding him up until he can get his feet under him once more.  “You’re alright, I’ve got you,” Draco says, with his vision half-obscured by Potter’s hair in his face.

“You have no idea.” Potter’s voice rumbles right by his ear, thrumming down his spine and prickling his skin into goosebumps.  The tableau holds, chest to chest such that Potter can surely feel the hammering of Draco’s heart, Potter’s lips so close to Draco’s neck that he can feel his breathing.  Turning his head awkwardly, Draco searches out Potter’s face, one eyebrow cocked in disbelieving enquiry.  Potter’s lips twitch into a half-smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his gaze flickers from Draco’s eyes to lips and back again.

“The tea’s getting cold.”  Draco pulls away, finding reassurance in retreat, as he always has.  Potter comes with him, walking closely enough to keep Draco’s senses on high alert, and companionably sitting beside him on the bench, accepting the tea – which is almost too hot to drink – with gratitude.

“You alright with pansies?” Potter asks, crossing his ankle on his knee, and balancing his mug on the side of his boot.  “I’ll do tulips.”

They spend the next couple of hours working, Draco planting pansies in a wide band around the outside of the bed, while Potter moves erratically around the middle, planting tulip bulbs that promise to flower in frilly white and pale yellow surrounded by a velvety-soft variety that is so dark it’s almost black.

“There,” says Potter, stepping carefully over Draco’s pansies and surveying their handiwork.  “That’ll look great in spring.”

“It’s a bit… bare, right now,” Draco replies doubtfully, looking at the bare earth that takes up most of the middle.”

“Well, yes.  But we’ll put some cyclamen or something in the middle for the winter.  Not right this minute, though, I’m hungry.”

They stroll down the Alley to a rather pretty pub, new thatch and vibrant hanging baskets inviting them in with a friendly air.  “I like the Leaky,” remarks Potter, “but this place isn’t so busy.  Easier to hear yourself think.”

They find a table in the corner beside a window looking out on to what is probably a rather popular garden in the summer.  Currently the grass is rather muddier than ideal, though a few determined twenty-somethings are playing a game of Aunt Sally enthusiastically.  The sounds of their competition carry through to Draco’s ears: the rattle of wooden clubs hitting the ground, their cheerfully derisive shouts of “iron!” as one unfortunate player misses the target, and finally cheers as someone successfully knocks the dolly off the iron pole.

The menu is appealing if a little unimaginative, and it’s easy for Draco to choose fish and chips.  Potter laughs when he requests mushy peas to go with it.  “And I thought you were so upper crust, Malfoy,” he teases, eyes twinkling.

It sets the tone of their lunch - light and frivolous, casual chitchat about nothing in particular until their plates are cleared, and they’re waiting for the bill.  “When we were at school I never would have thought we’d do this,” Potter says, gesturing vaguely at the two of them.

“Hmm,” Draco agrees, though it’s been the sort of simple togetherness he’d longed for at school, free of teenage politics or looming Dark magic that tarnished every possible pleasure.  “We were both dicks at school, though.  We would probably have just ended up fighting.”

Potter sits a little straighter in his chair, affronted.  “ _We_ were dicks?  You were, you mean.  You were awful to me – to everyone.”

“I wasn’t any worse than you were.”  Draco can feel his armour thickening, his voice dropping into the quiet, icily polite tone favoured by his mother.

Potter stares at him, incredulous.  “Oh come off it, Malfoy,” he says.  “You broke my nose!”

“And you sliced me open and left me bleeding to death on a filthy bathroom floor,” Draco counters.  “Do you want to see the scars?  I’ve got lots.”

Potter looks stricken, the colour draining from his face as his eyes flicker to Draco’s chest, fixing on his open collar where it’s just possible to glimpse the highest tip of scarring.  “I never meant– I mean, I didn’t know that’s what that spell did.”  He takes off his glasses, looking oddly vulnerable as he scrubs his face.  “I am so sorry for that.  I nearly killed you and then you saved my life.”  He replaces his glasses, blinking rapidly at the table.

Draco reaches over the table, covers Potter’s hand with his own.  “And then you saved mine.  I think we’re even.”  He chuckles a little, looks down.  “You saved everyone.  So I suppose I can say you saved me twice.”

Potter turns his hand over underneath Draco’s, fingers gently stroking Draco’s wrist.  “I’m glad I did,” he exhales, shakily.  “I have never been so grateful for a broomstick in all my life.”

“Do you still fly?”

“No.”  Potter shakes his head.  “I’ve not been on a broom since I shared one with you.  It gives me the willies just thinking about it.”

A deep sadness wells up in Draco.  He’d always loved watching Potter fly – however envious he’d been – it had always looked so easy, so graceful.  And Potter on a broom was more relaxed, more real, and perhaps also more attainable than he ever seemed on the ground, with the Boy Who Lived mantle firmly on his shoulders.  He sighs.  “You should try it again.  You used to love it so much.”

A lopsided smile creeps over Potter’s face.  “I used to love winning at Quidditch.”  His eyes twinkle.  “How many times did we go head-to-head as Seekers?”

“Four, I think.  And yes, you won every time.”  Draco tightens his grip on Harry’s hand ever so slightly.  “Care for a rematch?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t even have a broom any more.”  Potter is reluctant.

“You can borrow one of mine.  And I’ve got a set of practice balls.”

Potter sighs, drawing his hand back and pushing it through his tangled hair.  “Alright, alright, I’ll come.”  A small smile flickers across his face, drawing an answering one from Draco.  “No promises on actually flying, though, so don’t push your luck.”

 

After lunch, Potter returns to finish the day’s work, while Draco Apparates home to find Greg doing laundry.  He flops into an armchair, hooking his legs over the arm and watches as Greg studiously irons a pile of clothes.  He sighs.  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Greg,” he comments.

“So tell me.”  Greg doesn’t look up, just does as he always has and lets the silence grow until Draco can’t help but fill it.  He talks about Potter, the prophecy, the planting, his own doubts and fears.

Greg listens quietly for twenty minutes, then folds the final t-shirt, and waves both hands.

“Okay, okay, stop.” He fixes Draco with a stern look. “Let me get this straight. There’s a prophecy saying Potter might give you a chance.  Potter appears to be doing so.” Greg raises an eyebrow. “All the Potter fans may be a bit cheesed off, but the general public already dislike you as a Malfoy anyway, so nothing's changed there. You've spent your whole life desperate for attention from Potter, and now you've got it.  What exactly is the problem here?”

“I have not spent my life desperate for attention from Potter!” Draco folds his arms indignantly.

“Oh really?” Greg sighs. “So all that excited talking about him before we even went to Hogwarts was about some other Harry Potter, was it? All the hours we followed him around school on the flimsiest of pretexts were because we just happened to be in the same place at the same time? And God knows how much time Vince and I spent listening to you talk about him.” Greg throws a pair of balled-up socks at Draco's head. “If he's finally looking at you, talking to you without the pair of you throwing tantrums like toddlers, then how is that anything other than a good thing?”

He's right, Draco knows he is, but he feels like he’s in the path of two trains on a collision course; the years of pretending that he hated Potter heading for the secret, bone-deep knowledge that he never has. The thought of Potter getting any real idea of how he feels – how he has _always_ felt – is terrifying.

“I don't know, Greg,” Draco says, rubbing his eyes. “How could it ever work?”

“Life's too short to fuck about, mate,” Greg says seriously. “Vince thought he had all the time in the world. He didn't. None of us do.” He tucks the laundry basket under one arm, ruffles Draco's hair with the other hand. “I'll make a cup of tea.”

 

Sunday afternoon is a perfect day: bright sunshine that sets the trees glowing in autumnal finery, the sun’s warmth offset by a gentle breeze that hints at winter.  Draco loiters in a large park a short walk from Diagon Alley, two brooms behind him leaning against a large oak tree.  Eventually he spots Potter approaching, easy stride carrying him over the grass.

“Hello, Potter,” Draco says, moving aside and waving at the brooms.  “Pick one.”

Potter frowns.  “I’m really not sure you’re going to get me up on one.  Maybe just a Seeker’s game on foot?”

“Alright,” Draco sighs, having expected this reaction.  “But if I win, you have to fly.  Deal?”

Potter stares at him, then glances at the brooms, innocently propped against the tree.  “Alright,” he says.  “You’re on.”

Grinning triumphantly, Draco opens the box of practice balls, charming the Snitch to keep it within reach while playing on foot.  The little golden ball vibrates in his hand for a moment, then whisks away, flying up so that Draco and Potter are both dazzled by the sun, the Snitch vanishing from sight.  Both men blink for a moment, then move apart, each keeping one eye on the other while simultaneously searching for the Snitch.  Draco moves to the middle of their practice area, turning slowly to scan his surroundings.  Potter favours a different technique, patrolling the perimeter, constantly turning his head and glancing in every direction.

Ten minutes pass in this fashion, livened only by occasional feints to keep each other on their toes.  Then a glint of gold catches Draco’s eye, the Snitch hovering a couple of feet above the ground, on the far side of the ground.  Potter, currently behind Draco, although not as far away as ideal, has not yet seen it.  Draco sidles towards it slowly, waiting until Potter’s roving gaze travels away from him before committing to a sprint.  Potter immediately follows suit, his thundering footsteps behind Draco adding a level of peril not usually found in Quidditch.  Draco strains, pushing his feet into the ground, springing forward, but Potter is quicker, gaining on Draco with every stride.  Draco can almost feel the heat from Potter’s body, the breath from his lungs, he’s so close.  Potter is right on his heels, then they’re running shoulder-to-shoulder, the Snitch tantalisingly close.  Potter dives forwards, committing completely to the catch.  He crashes into the ground with Draco right alongside, their hands reaching forward together, muscles straining.  At the last moment the Snitch darts up, too high for Potter, whose weight is already too far forward to allow for correction.  Draco, a split second behind, has just enough time to snag a wing with his fingertips before slamming into the earth, air whooshing out of his lungs.

Draco rolls on to his back, panting.  Potter, also breathing hard, props himself up on one elbow.  “What’s so funny?” he asks, as Draco starts to chuckle breathlessly, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun.

Draco opens his hand to reveal the Snitch, one wing still wedged between his knuckles.  “I win.”

“Hmm,” Potter frowns, reaching across Draco to take the ball.  For one heart-stopping moment they’re lying chest to chest, Potter’s weight spread over Draco from ribs to hips in a manner at once alien and utterly natural.  “I reckon it’s a fix,” Potter murmurs, examining the Snitch while still lying so close to Draco, who clasps his hands together to stop himself from pulling Potter back down to him.

“Not a fix,” Draco replies.  “I just beat you.”  He sits up, gestures over at the pair of brooms, still waiting by the tree.  “Pick one.”

Potter heaves himself to his feet, ambling over to the tree.  He looks at the brooms, idly reaching out for one, then hesitates.  “Hang on a minute,” he says, “Isn’t that–“ he picks it up ”–it is, isn’t it?  This is your old school broom.”  He gives it an absent-mindedly affectionate stroke as he looks it over.  “I get a go on Draco Malfoy’s very own Nimbus 2001.  How times change.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath, then sets his jaw and straddles the broom.  Draco, astride the remaining broom, can see his hands trembling.  “You don’t have to do it if it bothers you that much,” he says, quietly.

Potter shakes his head.  “I said I would, and I will.”  He grits his teeth and pushes off, broom cruising along just above the ground.  Draco watches him tentatively fly down the field, then urges his own broom to catch up, swooping around in front of Potter and then pushing higher.  He’s flying quite slowly, trying not to intimidate Potter, but he can’t resist flying a few figures, gliding in graceful arcs, loops, and spirals.  After a while, he becomes aware of Potter flying just behind, and then beside him, following Draco’s lead through the patterns.  They’re such familiar drills to Draco – having flown them as warm-up in every Quidditch practice he’s ever taken, in kids club as a small child, Hogwarts, and then adult matches after the war – that he doesn’t even have to think, just gently sweep through the movements, slowly increasing the complexity by combining elements.  Potter matches him for every one, the two of them dancing through the air, increasing the pace until they’re whirling together, as easily as breathing.

Completing the set of drills, Draco pulls to a halt, glancing over at Potter hovering beside him.  “Fancy a race?” Draco asks, pointing at the oak tree, now some distance away.  Potter hesitates, chewing his lip.  Draco throws caution to the wind, a wild giddiness rising up in him.  “Scared, Potter?”

“You wish.”  Potter’s mind is made up in a heartbeat, and he immediately surges forward, the old broom responding with enthusiastic keenness.  Draco rushes after him, lying low on his broom, the wind whipping through his hair.  They fly faster and faster, Draco’s eyes starting to water as the tree looms closer.  He crouches lower, gaining on Potter, drawing level with his foot, then knee, then elbow.  It’s too little too late, though, as they flash past the oak with Potter just ahead.  His victorious shout echoes through the air as they each pull up, draining speed in sliding halts.

Draco has never been so happy to lose – Potter’s eyes are twinkling, his cheeks pink with exertion and victory, his hair in disarray.  “Alright, alright,” Draco says.  “You win.”

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Potter replies, handing the Nimbus back to Draco.  “That was a great idea.”

“Of course it was,” Draco replies, leaning the pair of brooms back against the tree.  “My ideas always are.”  He turns back, to find Potter right behind him, close, so close he can see the gold flecks in Potter’s eyes again.  “You alright, Potter?”  Potter’s lips twitch into a half-smile, as he reaches out, hands sliding round Draco’s waist as he steps closer, pulling Draco to him.

“Never better,” Potter murmurs, and then his lips are on Draco’s, warm and soft and exhilarating.  Shock is quickly displaced by a deep contentment, Draco pulling back briefly to goggle at Potter, then acquiescing, relaxing into the kiss.  His fingers tangle in Potter’s hair, slide down his spine.  Potter shivers as Draco’s wandering hands brush the skin at the nape of his neck, his own hands tightening on Draco’s waist, drifting to the small of his back and drawing Draco close.

As they come up for air, Draco rests his head on Potter’s shoulder, a breathless chuckle escaping him as Potter nibbles at his earlobe.  His voice is husky in Draco’s ear, deep vibrations raising goosebumps.  “You’ll come and do planting after work tomorrow?”  He nuzzles again, teeth scraping on the hinge of Draco’s jaw, scratching at stubbly hair.  “I’ve got to go now, and there’s some Ministry thing in the morning, but I’ll be planting all afternoon.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, thoughts slightly scrambled by the headiness of Potter’s closeness.  “Yes.  Planting.  Okay.”  He straightens up, only to be immediately arrested by Potter’s eyes, bright and twinkling.  Draco gives up trying to form a coherent sentence, instead pushes his fingers into Potter’s hair, and kisses him again, slowly and deliberately.  This time, with none of the shock, it’s deeper, more affectionate, and as they separate Draco can feel Potter’s smile before he can see it.

That feeling remains on his lips through the evening, tingling away through dinner with Greg, a firecall with his mother, and is still there when he gets into bed.  He goes to sleep with a smile on his face, and dreams of cool breezes and fast brooms, hard muscle and soft lips.

 

Monday morning dawns with grey skies threatening drizzle.  Draco walks to work with an umbrella hooked over his arm, and is surprised by how busy the Atrium is as he emerges from the fireplace.  Wondering what’s going on, he heads over to the tea stand.

“I'll be right with you, love!” The witch who normally mans the stand bustles over, green apron flapping. “I was just nattering with Judy, goodness me what a surprise, he avoids the Ministry like the plague, and then this out of nowhere, well I never.”

“Tea please,” says Draco, taking his opportunity to speak while she's pausing for breath and her friend Judy wanders over. “Who's here?”

She tucks her greying hair behind her ears, reaches for a mug. “Harry Potter, of all people!  Everyone’s wondering what’s going on, if there’s some big news coming out.”

“Or if there’s something Dark happening,” Judy chips in.  “Harry Potter will sort it if there is, him and his friends in the Aurors.”

“He’s not gone to Law Enforcement, though,” the first witch says.  “He’s gone down, to Mysteries.”

Draco mulls this over, sipping his tea.  He slowly becomes aware of whispering. As he looks up, the two women fall silent, until Judy elbows her friend. “Give him a biscuit, Sasha.” She looks at Draco. “You'd like a biscuit, Mr Malfoy, wouldn't you, love?  It’s cold down there and you need your strength.”

Sasha, cottoning on, hands over a plate scattered with custard creams and chocolate hobnobs.  “You work in Mysteries, don’t you?  Let us know what’s going on?”

“Er, of course.”  Draco is nonplussed, never having been bribed with a plate of biscuits before.  “If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

He makes his way down to the Hall of Prophecies, footsteps echoing in the vast space, and juggles the mug and plate outside his office door open, trying to free a hand, when he realises the door is not quite closed, and there are voices coming from inside.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”  A woman’s voice, calm and authoritative, the tone bringing to mind classrooms, correct answers, and a hint of remembered shame at not being the best scholar in the room.  He knows this voice, he’s sure he does.  “Of course it is.  I’m embarrassed it’s taken a Seer to point it out to you.”

“What?  This is a very new thing, Hermione.”  Potter’s voice, easily recognisable, sends Draco’s heart thumping.  “No need to be embarrassed.”  Potter is in Draco’s office, and he must be talking about the prophecy – the prophecy that claims the two of them could make a happy couple – and with Granger as well.  Draco’s skin prickles all over, tiny hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Are you sure, Harry?”  Granger’s voice is gentle.  “You’ve been close to Draco Malfoy for a long time.”

Potter protests.  “What?  I’ve only just seen him the other week, for the first time in years!”

“Hmm.” Granger is doubtful.  “And you’ve been happier this past week than I can remember ever seeing you.  You and he spent a lot of energy on each other while we were at school.  And afterwards.”

“The question is, mate, are you willing to risk spending the rest of your life with Malfoy?”  A deeper voice this time, presumably belonging to Weasley, completing the Golden Trio takeover of Draco’s office.

“I could think of worse things,” Potter snaps.  “He’s… he’s good company, Ron.  I like him.  I like him a lot.”

Footsteps behind Draco, now,  He looks round, and Ermintrude is hurrying across the Hall to him.  “Are they here yet?” she asks.  Without waiting for an answer, she pushes the door open, ushering Draco in before her.  “Good morning, Mr Potter!”  Ermintrude beams, shaking his hand.  “And Ms Granger, Mr Weasley, good morning, good morning.  You’ve had time to read the transcript, I hope?”

Nobody is paying her any attention, three pairs of eyes fixed on Draco.  Unnerved, he moves behind the desk, setting down the plate of biscuits before their rattling can give away how shaky his hands are.

“You get called down here too, Draco?”  Potter queries, a puzzled but friendly smile on his face.

“Oh no,” Ermintrude chips in.  “Mr Malfoy is my assistant.  He transcribes and files all the prophecies.  His system is really quite ingenious.”

The colour drains from Potter’s face, then rises again, a flush spreading upwards from his neck, and eyes glittering.  “You know about this prophecy?”

Draco nods, not trusting his voice.

“How long?” Potter demands.  “How long have you known?”

“Since it arrived,” Draco says, softly.  “About two weeks ago.”

Potter half-turns away, balling his fists, then rounds on Draco, control slipping away and volume rising with every word.  “So none of this was real?  The planting, the apples, the brooms, the kissing?”  He throws his hands up.  “You’re just doing what some nonsense prophecy tells you to do?”

Sudden fury rises in Draco, years of hiding his feelings, his conscience, his ideas from everyone, from his parents, his classmates, Harry Potter and the Dark Lord himself - it all rises up, breaking the dam until everything he’s never said floods out.

“Of course it was fucking real, Harry!” he spits.  “It’s been real my entire life.  I was in the Harry Potter Fan Club when I was five, did you know that?  I’ve got a badge to prove it, you can see it if you want.”  He takes a deep, juddering breath, tears prickling in his eyes.  He sighs, the rage ebbing away, leaving only resignation.  “I was awful to you at Hogwarts, I know that.  I was the son of a Death Eater, and you hated me, there was no way you were going to consent to be my friend, however much I tried.  So I picked on you.  I taunted, and I teased, and I laughed, and _you looked at me_.  Even though I could see hatred in your eyes, it was still better than being in the background, just another Slytherin, unnoticed and forgotten.”  He drops his head to his hands, wiping his eyes before reaching out for Bert, the little paper crane rubbing his beak against Draco’s finger in a show of solidarity.  Eyes fixed on the bird, he continues.  “You asked me in the Room of Requirement why I didn’t tell my Aunt Bellatrix that it was you, even though I knew.  As if I could have done anything else.  I have loved you for years, and you ask why I didn’t hand you over to be murdered.”  He shakes his head, glances up to see Potter’s eyes round with shock.  “I taunted you for being ‘The Chosen One’ at school.  But to me you were always just ‘The One’.  You still are.”

As Draco stops speaking, there’s a silence in the room, so thick he can almost feel it, pressing down on all sides.  Granger, as is her wont, is the first to break it.  “Well,” she says.  “I think you have some talking to do.  We’ll leave you both to it.”  She looks over to Ermintrude, still barely inside the room, and looking utterly shocked.  “I imagine Draco will be taking the day off.  That’ll be alright, won’t it, Ms Dobson?”

Ermintrude starts, flustered at being addressed.  “Oh, oh, yes, of course,” she stammers.  “No problem.”

“There we are then,” Granger says, shooing her and Weasley out of the door, looking at Harry with a serious expression, eyes soft.  “We’ll see you later, Harry.”

Weasley looks back as he crosses the threshold, a relieved smile on his face.  “Welcome to the family, Malfoy,” he says.  “There’ll be a space for you for Sunday lunch at The Burrow.”

“Yes, yes, Ron, no need to overwhelm the poor man with Weasleys already.”  Granger prods him through the door, then reaches across the desk and squeezes Draco’s shoulder.  “You’re a brave man, Draco,” she says with a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.  “Well done.”

Draco and Harry listen to their retreating footsteps echoing through the Hall of Prophecies, strains of conversation drifting back to them.

“You can’t just invite Draco to your mum’s, Ron,” Granger is admonishing.  “They’re not even together yet.”

“They will be.”  Weasley laughs.  “All that time Harry was obsessing over Malfoy, and Malfoy was obsessing right back.  Who knew?”

“I should have known,” Granger grumbles.  “I just hope they sort it out.”

The outer door of the Hall of Prophecies creaks, then thuds closed, cutting off any more of the Granger-Weasley conversation.  Draco and Harry look at each other, neither willing to be the first to speak.  Harry, lacing and unlacing his fingers, looking at the floor, eventually breaks the stalemate.  “I had no idea.”  He glances at Draco, then away again.  “About any of it.  Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me?”

“You didn’t have clearance to hear the prophecy,” says Draco, knotting his fingers together and trying to avoid the accusation in Harry’s eyes.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”  Harry is tense as he takes a step towards the door.  “That’s not good enough.  You can’t just waltz into my life with your apples and your broomsticks and not tell me about this prophecy that says we’re – what?  Some kind of celebrity couple?”

Anger floods through Draco, spurring him out from behind the desk, slamming the office door.  “What was I supposed to do?” he shouts.  “I’m not permitted to discuss prophecies outside of the department, and particularly not with the focus of a prophecy!”  He bangs the back of his head on the door in exasperation, eyes rolling up to the ceiling.  “You don’t think I might have been scared by it?  By our history, by what I’ve just admitted to?  How could I possibly trust a prophecy – trust you – that much?”

Harry turns on him, eyes glittering.  “How could you trust me?  How could _I_ trust _you?!_  You broke my nose, you– you Slytherin fucking wanker!”

The fight drains out of Draco, leaving him jittery with fear, despair, and residual adrenaline.  “We’ve already had this conversation,” he points out, quietly.

Harry sighs, perches on the prophecy barrels, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the edge of his shirt.  “Yeah, we have.  Was it true, all that?” he asks.  “I didn’t know there even was a fan club.  When I was five, I spent most of my time locked in a cupboard, and wizarding children were joining clubs and getting badges?”

“I had a sticker book as well,” Draco offers.  “I don’t think I’ve still got that, though.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, then looks up at him.  “Why didn’t you just tell me at Hogwarts?” he asks.  “You had an awful time at school, and at home.  How much worse could it have been?”

“You could have – would have – said no.”  Draco’s lips twitch in a half-smile, half-grimace.  “If there’s one thing about me you ought to know by now, it’s that I’m a coward.  I was far too afraid of rejection to even contemplate the idea.  And in any case, I was hardly subtle.  Why on earth did you think I spent so much time following you around?”

Harry’s head snaps up, and he stares at Draco in disbelief.  “You are _not_ a coward.”  Draco raises a querying eyebrow.  “No, you’re not,” Harry continues.  “You were in a house full of Dark wizards, and you stayed sane.  You were forced into being branded a Death Eater, and you refused to murder anyone – not me, not Dumbledore.  You were under incredible pressure to hand me over to Voldemort, and I was right there in front of you, and you still didn’t do it.”  Harry shakes his head, then reaches out to Draco, wrapping his arms around him.  “Nothing I did was anywhere near so impressive.”

The relief that sweeps through Draco is so strong it makes his eyes water and his knees buckle.  “Come off it, Harry.”  Draco’s voice is muffled, as he speaks into Harry’s shoulder and surreptitiously wipes his eyes on Harry’s shirt.  “You died to save the world.  I’m not sure a better definition of ‘hero’ even exists.”

“I’m not getting into a game of heroic one-upmanship with you, Malfoy,” Harry says, mock-sternly, pulling away.

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Draco asks anxiously, rubbing at his arm.  “The Death Eater thing?”

Harry takes Draco’s arm, unbuttons his shirt cuff, and slowly rolls his sleeve up, exposing the Dark Mark inch by inch.  “This is how much it bothers me,” he says.  He pulls Draco’s unresisting arm around himself, until his back is pressed to Draco’s chest, Draco’s exposed left arm held out in front of them.  Harry gently strokes the Mark with a fingertip, humming in quiet surprise at the different textures of snakeskin, skull, and Draco’s own warm skin.  He pulls it up to his face, and kisses Draco’s wrist, working slowly up the inside of his arm, over the Mark and up to the clean skin at the elbow.

Flush against Harry’s back, kisses and shivers chasing each other up his arm, Draco can just hang on.  He slides his free hand around Harry’s waist, holding on to his hip.  Harry’s shirt has ridden up a little, and without intending to do so, Draco finds himself gently stroking a small patch of exposed skin.  He only really becomes aware of what he’s doing as an almost-silent groan rumbles through Harry’s chest, and he tips his head back to rest on Draco’s shoulder, eyes closed.  “Oh, you like that?” Draco’s murmur is almost a whisper, met with another groan, Harry pulling Draco’s Marked arm close around him.  Draco slides his fingers between the buttons of Harry’s shirt, pressing over warm skin and into hair that thickens below the bellybutton.

Harry whimpers, turns in Draco’s arms, and steals another kiss, pushing his whole body against Draco’s.  He rolls his hips once, twice, and his erection is obvious, Draco’s body keen to match it.  A breathless chuckle escapes Draco, and he stands up straighter, pushing Harry back until there’s almost two whole inches between their chests.  “Not here,” Draco gasps.

“Scared, or prude?” Harry wonders, earning himself a sharp prod in the ribs.

“Neither, thank you.  But this is my workplace, and I’d rather maintain some sort of propriety.”  Draco looks round to see, perched on one of the prophecy orb barrels, Bert, head tilted in fascination as he watches them.  “And I’m not doing anything while Bert watches,” he decides.  “It’s not decent.”

“Who the hell is Bert?”  At this, the little paper crane flutters over, lands on Draco’s shoulder and gives Harry’s hand a sharp peck.  “Ow!”  Affronted, Harry holds his hand out for Draco to inspect.  “Look what your vicious creature did!”

Draco rolls his eyes.  “He’s an origami crane, not a live tiger.  You’ll live.”  He strokes Bert affectionately.  “But he’s very innocent, and I’m not going to expose him to– to–”

“To you, being exposed?”

“Yes.  It’s not right.”

“Okay,” Harry concedes.  “Let’s go.”  He pulls Draco close again, wrapping him in magic that immediately slaps them both back down.  Harry frowns.  “What the hell?”

Draco laughs.  “You don’t honestly think you can Apparate in and out of the Department of Mysteries, do you?”

Harry chews on his bottom lip.  “Well, when you put it like that…  Where can we go from, then?”

“The Atrium.  Like everyone else.”

Harry is horrified.  “What, walk out up there, with the press snooping about looking for the latest Harry Potter gossip, with _this?_ ”  He grinds his hips against Draco’s once more.

“Serves you right for wearing Muggle clothes,” Draco observes.  “It wouldn’t be an issue in robes.”

“ _You’re_ not wearing robes,” Harry points out.  “And anyway, the only people I’ve ever known to regularly wear robes were Dumbledore, Snape, and your dad.”  He blanches.  “And now I don’t think I want to think about why they wore robes.”

“Hold that thought,” Draco advises.  “It might help take the edge off.”

Harry scrubs a hand through his hair.  “I’m not sure anything is going to take the edge off.  You stand there in your impractical Muggle clothes, with your tea and your declarations of undying love, and think I can think of anything else other than getting you into bed as soon as humanly possible?”

“Try.”  Draco pulls him through the door, ignoring the way his own cock is trying to make itself known.

In the lift back up to the Atrium, Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugging at Draco.  “Better than nothing, right?”

The Atrium is still busy, though somewhat quieter.  Draco leads the way to the fireplaces, trying to ignore the whispers that follow them.  Harry pushes ahead of him as they arrive, taking a large pinch of Floo powder and whisking them away.

 

They tumble out into a kitchen, long, narrow, and welcoming.  Draco looks around in surprise.  “Hungry, were you?”

“What?  No,” Harry says, tugging him towards the door before stopping, glancing at Draco over his shoulder.  “Did you think I’d take you straight to the bedroom?”

Draco shrugs, unable to stop the grin spreading over his face.  “We can sit in the parlour and drink tea if you’d rather.”

Harry’s frown deepens.  “I don’t have a parlour, and if you carry on like that, I’ll–”

“–take ten points from Slytherin?  You were never a Prefect, if I remember correctly.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry retorts, muffling any possibility of a reply by pulling Draco close to him and kissing him as if his life depended on it.  His magic takes Draco by surprise, wrapping around them both, pressing them into each other and whirling them away.  A moment later they land in a bedroom with a few discarded socks littering the floor.

“You deviant, Potter,” Draco murmurs, clutching at Harry for balance – pointlessly, as Harry gives him a shove so that he falls backwards on to the large bed.  Harry follows him, straddling his legs and continuing the kissing until there’s no way either of them could deny their arousal, even if they had been wearing robes.

“Apparently so, yes.”  Harry licks the Dark Mark, tongue darting out in a swift movement that sends shivers straight to Draco’s cock, his hips bucking.  He tugs at buttons, steadily kissing his way down Draco’s chest until the final one is undone, the material falling away and Harry reeling back in shock.

“Oh my god,” he stammers.  “I’m so sorry, Draco, so sorry.”  The scars across Draco’s chest are livid in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, burning almost as brightly as Harry’s shame.

“Yeah, well,” Draco says quietly.  “Sorry didn’t stop me nearly bleeding to death.”  He meets Harry’s eyes, twists the knife a little.  “You just left me there.”  His voice catches, tears prickling his eyes.  “You walked away as if it was nothing.  As if my life meant nothing at all.”

Harry’s eyes are huge, glistening.  “I hated myself for doing that,” he confesses.  “You say you’re a coward, but I almost killed you and then just ran away.  I’m sorry.”  A tear trickles down his cheek.  “I’m so sorry.”

Draco pushes him back, sits up and gathers him into a hug.  A single sob escapes Harry, and he clutches Draco as if he’ll never let go.  “It’s alright,” Draco whispers, squeezing him tight.  “We’re alright.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Harry vows, leaning back and tracing a finger along one scar that runs from Draco’s collarbone almost to his navel, in a jagged, ugly line.  “But I don’t know where to even start.”

“Here,” suggests Draco, lying back down, pulling Harry with him, and rolling his hips upwards.  “Start here.”

Harry’s whole body jerks in response, and then he seems galvanised by Draco’s words, total focus on the task in hand.  It’s not long before more clothes are scattered across the carpet, and Draco finally has a chance to properly look at Harry.  His skin is creamy white, though his forearms are browned from sun exposure.  A thatch of dark hair covers most of his belly, thickening as it travels downwards, and it’s this that entices Draco, invites him to roll Harry over on to his back, hide his fingers in that hair as he licks a broad stripe up Harry’s cock.  It jumps under him, and a thin, reedy sound escapes from Harry, his hips quivering as he tries to keep relatively still.

A sense of mischief steals over Draco.  “You want to make it up to me, Harry?” he whispers.  Harry’s eyes flick open, and he nods.  “Then stay still.”

“What?”

“Stay still,” Draco repeats, his hands pressing lightly on Harry’s hips.  “Stay still.”  He rocks forward, kissing Harry’s neck, nipping at his earlobe.  Harry reaches out, threading his fingers through Draco’s hair, fingers digging into his hip.  “You can do better than that,” admonishes Draco, taking both Harry’s hands and placing them above his head, resting on the pillow.  “Now stay still.”

Draco slowly, so slowly moves down Harry’s body, dotting kisses here, there, and everywhere – everywhere other than Harry’s cock, which is leaking copiously and twitching every time Draco touches him.  Draco pushes Harry’s legs apart, lies between them with his head on Harry’s thigh, kissing close, so close.

A high pitched keening escapes Harry, and then, hopelessly aroused yet still exasperated, “You’re a fucking tease, Draco.”

Draco hums, enjoying how the vibration through Harry’s thigh makes his skin twitch.  “Yes.  I do believe I am.”  He grins up at Harry.  “What would you rather I did?”

Harry, still desperately trying to remain motionless, tenses from head to foot.  “Please, just touch me.”

“Touch you?”  Draco kisses a knee.  “Here?”

“No, not there, you wanker.”

Moving up to Harry’s kiss sternum, letting his own full cock touch Harry’s, the contact maddeningly brief. “Ah, then you must mean here,”

“No, please, just– oh!”  Harry is cut off as Draco finally takes his cock in his mouth and his hand.  He licks and strokes for just long enough to bring Harry right to the edge, then pauses, panting, loving how Harry quivers under him so helplessly.

“Alright,” he whispers into Harry’s ear, straddling him but not letting their cocks touch.  “You can move now.”  The effect is immediate, Harry flipping them both over, his weight pushing Draco down into the bed.  Harry brings Draco’s hand down to their cocks, both of them stroking, thrusting together in a perfect storm of tension, relief and desire.  They come almost at the same time, both shuddering, gasping until Harry collapses across Draco, wrapped in his arms.

A satisfied hum thrums through Draco.  “Excellent work, Mr Potter,” he says.  “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Harry, too worn out to even look up, is still indignant.  “Only ten?”

Draco chuckles.  “You’re welcome to lodge an appeal, on a future occasion.”  He holds Harry a little tighter, nuzzles the side of his neck.  “The judge is open to bribery.”

 

Several months later, spring has sprung, and the trees are dressing themselves in acid green, joyful at the warming of the days.  Draco and Harry stroll through Diagon Alley, meandering from shop to shop with no particular aim.  They’re facing uphill when a gap forms in the crowds, allowing them to glimpse what Draco will always think of as _their_ flower bed.  He stops dead in the middle of the road, staring.  The circumference of the bed is still all pansies, smiling cheerfully, but the main portion of it is tulips.  Clusters of white tulips, joined together by thin lines of yellow ones, all surrounded by tulips so dark they’re almost black.

Draco turns, stares at Harry, who’s grinning lopsidedly and looking rather abashed.  “What do you think?” he asks.  “I think it came out rather well.”  Pride colours his voice, however self-conscious it is.

“It did, yes.  Not that I imagine most people will even know what it is.”  Draco gazes at the flowers, cheerfully nodding in the faint breeze.  “And you planted it before–” he coughs.  “–before that sodding prophecy even let the cat out of the bag.”

“Yeah, well.  An apple tree and a few tulips aren’t much, in the grand scheme of things.”

“No.”  Draco turns to Harry, pulls him close, his heart beating wildly.  The ground feels solid under his feet, as it has done for half a year now.  “It’s everything.”  He kisses Harry deeply, despite the matching smiles stretching their lips.

At the top of the hill, picked out in tulips, the constellation _Draco_ smiles at the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/133623.html).


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